one thought was for the good horse, who had dropped downwards into this
unseen, unsuspected pit, and was gasping in affright, but might possibly
have escaped serious injury. He himself felt little ill effects, having
had a marvellous escape. But his soul was stirred within him, and in
getting out the horse he saw plainly that Dick had been right, and that
some sort of old trap-door concealed an opening into the ground which
might have been at one time a well, but was now silted up with sand. By
luring the foremost rider to this particular spot to take the leap, any
astute enemy aware of the nature of the ground could almost certainly
ensure his overthrow and defeat; and Grey had his suspicions that Lord
Sandford had hoped that he might then and there break his neck--a thing
which might very well have happened.
There was a crowd round the spot now, and great horror was expressed by
many at sight of the unsuspected well, no voice being louder than Lord
Sandford's in proclaiming astonishment and indignation. But Grey took no
notice of the clamour, only busying himself about his horse; and
presently, with some difficulty, the sagacious and docile creature was
got out, and it appeared that no limb was broken, though one hock was
deeply cut, and one shoulder badly strained.
Grey stood in silent thought awhile, his hand upon the neck of his
favourite, who stood with drooping head and dejected mien, as though
wondering whether he would ever be whole and sound again. Dick was
binding up the wound, his face like a thunder-cloud. A knot of persons
of all ranks stood watching at a little distance; but Grey had
courteously waved away all proffers of help, and indicated that he
desired no attentions.
"Dicon," he said in a low tone, "we must now part for a while. Don
Carlos will need you more than I. He is now my sole fortune, and must
be respected as such. Take him and your own nag, and walk them both by
easy stages to Hartsbourne. There are paddocks enough and to spare, and
I surely have the right to pasture my horse in one; but if the thing
should come to my kinsman's ears, give him what is due in money, and I
will repay you. Old Jock Jarvis will be your friend. He will rejoice
in your company and give you house-room with him, and it is not so far
but that I can get news of you from time to time. Your good horse will
bring you to London in three hours or less any day you have a mind to
come; and you can watch for me what goes on yonder, and bring me word
again."
It was a grief to Dick to part from his master; but he saw the need, and
he loved the horse only second to Grey himself.
"I will do your behest, master. Nay, I want no money; I have plenty for
all my needs. I too have made some modest wealth here in this great
city. Only tell me where I may find you, and I will be gone, and do what
can be done for the poor beast."
"You shall always get news of me at Wills' Coffee House, good Dicon,"
was the answer. "Where I go and how I live, I know not yet; but I will
leave word there for you. So now, farewell. I turn a new page in my
life from this day forth."
*CHAPTER X.*
*"THE OLD LION."*
Grey Dumaresq, having settled matters with his servant, and adjusted the
disarray of his own dress and person, turned towards a group of men who
were standing round Lord Sandford, making believe to laugh and jest, but
showing some vague symptoms of uneasiness as they cast sidelong glances
in the direction of their erstwhile comrade.
Grey walked straight up to Lord Sandford, and looked him full in the
eyes. Did the glance of the other quail ever so little before his? He
thought so, but could scarce be certain.
"My lord," he said, "I have to thank you for many acts of kindness and
courtesy, and a certain liberality of treatment which I have received at
your hands and within your doors. In taking my farewell, I wish freely
to acknowledge all this debt. But other matters which I need not
specify, yet which are well understood by your lordship, have transpired
to change the relations betwixt us; and I wish to add that I desire to
be beholden to no man. In the rooms allotted to me in your lordship's
house there is a quantity of wearing apparel, jewels, trinkets, for
which I have no more use. I pray you have them sold, and the amount
thus realized will reimburse you for all charges you have been at in my
maintenance during the time I have dwelt beneath your roof. That is all
I have to say.--Gentlemen, I wish you a very good day."
And lifting his hat with quiet dignity and grace, Grey made them a
general salute and turned upon his heel.
But Lord Sandford's voice came thundering after him. "Do you desire to
insult me, sir? Am I a beggarly inn-keeper, that I should sell a
guest's belongings to pay my bill? What do you mean by such words? Do
you desire that I should demand satisfaction for them at your hands?"
Grey did not know whether this man desired to fasten a quarrel upon him
or not, and, truth to tell, he did not care. He just turned his head
over his shoulder, and threw back an answer in tones of scarcely veiled
contempt.
"That is for your lordship to decide. I shall have pleasure in giving
any satisfaction demanded at any time, and in any place appointed. For
the rest, a man who has sought to compass the death of a comrade by a
foul trick need scarcely fear to soil his hands by the touch of his
gold. Again I wish you good-day, my lord."
And without so much as turning his head again, Grey Dumaresq walked off,
his head held high, neither observing nor returning the many salutes and
bright arch glances shot at him from the lane of bystanders through
which he needs must pass, but walking like a man in a dream, and so
disappearing from view along the white road which led Londonwards.
Round Lord Sandford men were buzzing like bees disturbed.
"Insolent young jackanapes!" "What did he mean?" "What was his motive
in such an insult?" "What will you do, my lord?" "Whither has he gone?
Whither will he go?" "Is it true that he is ruined?" "He has lost his
horse, at least. None will give him a score of guineas for the beast
now." "How did it chance?" "Was it an accident?" "What meant he by
his words?" All were pouring out these and like questions; but there
was none to answer them, till Lord Sandford himself spoke.
"The fellow's wits are gone astray," he cried in his loud, dominating
tones. "It is the Dumaresq blood. Sir Hugh was just such another--mad
as a March hare half his time, flinging his gold to the winds, and
quarrelling with every man he met. Like father, like son. It has been
coming on for days. I misdoubted me if ever he would ride this race. He
came and told me he must reform. That was ever his father's cry, and he
would disappear into the country for a while, and reappear again as gay
as ever. 'Tis the same with the son. I saw it then, and I strove to
combat the madness; but 'tis ill dealing with the lunatic. You see what
we get for our pains! Tush! let the fellow alone. I did wrong to
answer him. Let him go his own way, and we will think of him no more."
And Lord Sandford, with a heavy cloud upon his brow, and a look about
the corners of his mouth which warned those about him to say no more,
but leave matters as they were, flung away from them, and made his way
back alone to the inn, from which he was presently seen to issue forth
in his gorgeous chariot, driving furiously along the road which led to
St. Albans.
His boon companions, thus left to their own devices, went over to the
spot where the strange thing had befallen at the race, and where the
country folk had gathered with shakings of the head and questionings
beneath their breath; and there, plain for all men to see, was the
yawning hole with the open trap hanging down, and the marks of the heavy
fall of the good horse, whose escape with whole bones was little short
of a miracle.
An old countryman was holding forth to a knot of eager questioners, now
swelled by Lord Sandford's friends.
"I mind well when there was a house here; 'twas pulled down when I were
a young chap. And the well must ha' bin hereabouts. That old trap has
been in the ground ever since I can mind; but there be no water now, and
the sand has pretty nigh silted it up. I've a-looked in many a time,
and the hole gets less and less deep. When I saw them setting up the
brushwood and things here, I made sure they had covered the trap well.
I walked about it, but never saw sign of it. If I'd a thought of
danger, I'd ha' told one of the fine folks. I suppose they never seed
it. The grass and stuff do grow long and rank this time o' year. And
so the gentleman's horse trod on it, and it gave way with him. Mercy
me, but 'tis a wonder he didn't break his neck then and there!"
Lord Sandford's comrades looked each other in the eyes, and drew a
little away. All knew that something strange had passed upon him of
late, and that there was some rupture betwixt him and the man who had
but lately accused him of seeking to compass his death.
"Did he know?" "Was it plot or plan of his?" whispered one and another;
but none could give the answer.
* * * * *
A wild, wet September day was drawing to its close, amid pelting squalls
of cold rain, when a tall young man, gaunt and hollow-eyed, pushed his
way into a small coffee-house in an obscure thoroughfare somewhere in
the region of Drury Lane, and took a seat in a dark corner as near to
the stove as he could get, for he looked pinched with cold, and his
plain and rather threadbare black suit was pretty well wet through. As
soon as he was seated, he drew from his breast a roll of paper, which he
regarded with solicitude. That at least was dry, and he heaved a sigh
that sounded like one of satisfaction.
In this narrow street the daylight had completely faded, though it was
not yet six o'clock. The room was furthermore darkened by clouds of
tobacco smoke which the guests were puffing forth. The smell of coffee
mingled with the ranker fumes of the tobacco, and the clink of cup and
spoon made ceaseless accompaniment to the talk, which went on in a
continuous stream.
Grey (for it was he) leaned his head on his hand wearily, and fell into
something like a doze as he sat in his shadowy corner. He was exhausted
in mind and in body. He was faint with hunger, and yet half afraid to
order food; for his funds were dwindling almost to the vanishing point,
and as yet he had found no means of replenishing his exchequer. But he
had not been able to resist the temptation to escape from the buffetings
of the tempest, and when the boy in attendance upon the guests came to
ask his pleasure, he ordered some coffee and bread, and devoured it with
a ravenous appetite when it was set before him.
The pangs of hunger stayed, if not appeased, he began to look about him,
and to wonder into what manner of company he had thrust himself. He had
never before been inside this house, though he had, in the first days of
his new career, taken his meals in some of the numerous coffee or
chocolate houses, or the taverns which abounded throughout the town.
Latterly he had generally bought his food at the cheapest market, and
had eaten it in the attic to which he had removed himself and his few
belongings. He was beginning to wonder how long he should be able even
to retain that humble abode as his own. Dame Fortune's smiles seemed
quite to have deserted him, and abject poverty stared him grimly in the
face.
A smoking lamp had been brought in, and hung overhead, lighting up the
faces of the company with its yellow glare. There was something strange
and Rembrandt-like in the effect of the picture upon which Grey's eyes
rested. Leaning back dreamily with his head against the wall, he could
almost fancy himself back in one of those foreign picture galleries, in
which heretofore he had delighted, and where so many hours of his time
had been spent.
But this was a living picture, shifting, changing, breaking up into
groups and re-forming again; and the hum of talk went on unceasingly, as
one after another took up the word and launched forth his opinions,
generally in florid and flowery language, and with much gesticulation
and indignation.
What first struck Grey as strange was the anger which seemed to possess
all these men. That they were in no good case was well-nigh proved by
the shabbiness of their dress, and by the fact of their being gathered
in this very humble and cheap place of resort, which would not tempt any
but those in adverse circumstances. But over and above their poverty,
they seemed to be railing at neglect or injustice of some sort, and ever
and anon would break out into virulent abuse of some person or persons,
whose names were unknown to Grey, but who evidently were characters well
known to the others of the company.
"There is no such thing as justice left, or purity of taste, or any such
thing!" shouted a handsome, well-proportioned fellow, whose face had
attracted Grey's notice several times, and seemed dimly familiar to him.
"Look at the mouthing mountebanks that walk the boards now! They strut
like peacocks, they gibber like apes. They have neither voice, nor
figure, nor talent, nor grace. But, forsooth, because some fine dame
has smiled upon them, or they are backed by a nobleman's patronage, they
can crow it over the rest of us like a cock upon his dunghill, and we,
who have the talent and the gifts, may rot like rats in our holes!"
"Shame! shame! shame!" cried an admiring chorus.
"Look at me!" thundered the young man, his eyes flashing. "Who dares
say I cannot act? Have I not held spellbound, hanging on my lips, whole
houses of beauty and fashion? Have I lost my skill or cunning? Has my
voice or has my grace departed from me? Wherefore, then, do I sit here
idle and hungry, whilst men not fit to black my boots hold the boards
and fill their pouches with gold? Why such injustice, I say?"
A chorus of indignation again arose; but out of the shadows came a deep
voice.
"The answer is easy, friend Lionel; arrogance and drink have been the
cause of your downfall. How could any manager continue to engage you?
How many times has it happened that you have come to the theatre sodden
with drink? How many representations have you spoiled by your bestial
folly? They were patient with you. Oh yes, they were very patient; for
they knew your gifts and recognized them. But you met friendly rebuke
or warning with haughtiness and scorn. You would listen to no counsel;
you would heed no warnings. The end should have been plain to you from
the beginning, an you would not mend your ways. I told you how it needs
must be; and now the time has come when you see it for yourself. Worse
men are put in the parts that you excelled in, because they can be
depended upon. No drunkard can ever become great. Put that in your
pipe and smoke it, Lionel Field."
At the sound of this new voice, speaking out of the shadows of the
ingle-nook, a great hush had fallen upon the room. Grey leaned forward
to obtain a view of the speaker, and the firelight played upon the
striking features and iron-gray hair of a very remarkable-looking old
man of leonine aspect, whose voice was of that penetrating quality which
makes itself heard without being raised; and it was plain that something
in the personality of the man lifted him above his fellows, for all
listened in silence whilst he spoke, and even the arrogant young actor
looked for the moment abashed.
"Who is it?" whispered Grey to the man next him; and the answer came
readily, though spoken in a cautious whisper.
"His name is Jonathan Wylde. Once he, too, was a famous actor; but long
illness crippled his limbs, and he has fallen into poverty. He is
always called the Old Lion, and methinks the name suits him well. He is
a very lion for courage, else would he not dare to rebuke Master Lionel
Field. For he is one who is ready with his fist, or with knife or
bludgeon, and it is ill work meeting him when he is in his cups."
Grey looked with interest and attention at the old man in the shadows;
but he was leaning back again, and spoke no more. The talk surged round
him again from the rest; they spoke of the plays that were being enacted
at the various theatres, and of those who were playing the various
_roles_. Some of them stood up and rolled forth bits of Congreve's
witty and sparkling dramas, and disputed as to whether the "Old
Bachelor" or the "Way of the World" were his happiest effort; whilst
some declared that the "Double Dealer" was the best of all. They talked
excitedly of the revival at Drury Lane of Farquhar's "Love and a
Bottle," which had scored such a success some fourteen or fifteen years
previously. And there were some who lauded and some who depreciated
Colley Cibber and his "Careless Husband" and "Love's Last Shift," which
were favourites throughout the town.
It was a new world to Grey; but he listened with a certain fascination,
for the drama had always attracted him, and he watched the gestures of
the actors and listened to their mouthing periods with something between
wonder and amusement. He could understand that these men had been
failures. Only Lionel Field appeared to have any true histrionic gift,
and the cause of his downfall was plain to be read after the speech of
the "Old Lion." From time to time, as the light flickered upon the
striking face in the ingle, Grey caught a fine-lipped smile upon it, and
once or twice he thought the old actor's eyes met his in a gleam of
humour. But of that he could not be sure--it might be but the trick of
the firelight; and presently wearied nature asserted itself, and the
young man passed from drowsiness to actual sleep, and knew nothing more
till a sharp grip upon his arm roused him to a sense of his
surroundings.
It was the tapster who thus shook him; and when he opened his eyes, Grey
saw--or thought, at least--that the room was empty. What the time was
he had no idea; but it must be late, and he rose hastily to his feet
with a muttered apology at having overstayed the closing time.
At that moment there emerged out of the shadows of the ingle-nook a bent
figure, dignified even in its infirmity, and the voice which Grey had
heard before spoke in quietly authoritative accents.
"Bring hither coffee and a dish of eggs for two. The wind and rain yet
howl around the house. This gentleman will sup with me ere we go home.
Go and serve us quickly, for we have both a good stomach, and would eat
ere we depart hence."
The tapster vanished quickly to do the bidding of the guests, and Grey
turned a wondering glance upon the Old Lion, whose face, framed in its
shaggy gray hair, looked more leonine than ever, the bright eyes shining
out of deep caverns from under bushy brows, the rugged features full of
power, not unmixed with a curious underlying ferocity. But the glance
bent upon Grey was kindly enough.
"Sit down, young man; I would know more of you. I have a gift for
reading faces. I have marked yours ever since you entered this room.
Tell me your name. Tell me of yourself, for you were not born to the
state to which you have now fallen."
"My name is Grey," was the ready answer. Grey had dropped his title and
patronymic with his fallen fortunes, and used his mother's name alone.
"My father was a country gentleman. I was gently reared, and was at one
time a scholar at Oxford, where I dreamed many dreams. Afterwards I
travelled abroad, returning to find my father dead and my home in the
hands of a kinsman to whom it was mortgaged by my father. The small
fortune I received I squandered foolishly in a few weeks of gay living
with young bloods of the town. I wakened from my dream to find myself
well-nigh penniless, disgusted alike with myself and those I had called
my friends. I have ever been something ambitious. I misdoubt me I am a
fool; but I did think that I might win laurels upon the field of
literature. I have never lost the trick of rhyming, and jotting down
such things as pleased my fancy, whether in prose or in verse. Do I
weary you with my tale?"
"No, sir--far from it. Let me hear you to the end. I did see you take
forth a roll of paper from your breast as you came in. That action,
together with your face, told me much. You have the gift of a creative
fancy. You have written a poem or a play."
"Neither the one nor the other, but a romance," answered Grey, the
colour flushing his face as it flushes that of a maiden when the love of
her heart is named by her. "I scarce know how to call it, but methinks
it savours more of a romance than of aught besides. When I was rudely
awakened from my pleasure-loving life, saw the folly and futility
thereof, and desired to amend, I did take a quiet lodging high up in a
building off Holborn, and there I did set myself to the task, and right
happy was I in it. I had a score of gold pieces still left me, and my
needs I did think modest; though, looking back, they seem many to me
now. The weeks fled by, and my work reached its close. When my romance
was finished, my money was all but spent. For the past week or more I
have been seeking a publisher for it. In my folly I did think that it
would bring me gold as fast as I wanted. My eyes have been rudely
opened these last days."
The Old Lion nodded his head many times.
"You made a mistake in seeking a publisher, young sir. You should first
have sought a patron."
Grey's face flushed slightly, and he hesitated before he spoke.
"Others have said the same to me; but there are difficulties. I have
not learned to go cap in hand to cringe for patronage to the great ones
of the earth." But, as Grey saw a slight smile flicker in the old man's
eyes, he added rather hastily, "And then I desire not to be known and
recognized by those whom I did know ha my former life. There is scarce
an antechamber in those fine houses where patrons dwell where I might
not meet the curious and impertinent regard of those who would know me
again. That I will not brook." And now Grey's eyes flashed, thinking of
Lord Sandford, and how he would chuckle to hear how low his rival had
fallen. "No; if I am to succeed at all, I must needs do so without a
patron. If I fail, there is one resource left. Able-bodied paupers are
sent to the wars. I can go thither and fight."
Again a smile flickered over the Old Lion's face; but the tapster was
entering with the smoking viands, and the gleam in Grey's eyes bespoke
the wolf within him.
"Set to, my friend, and make a good meal. When we have cleared the
trenchers, you shall come with me to my lodging. I would hear the end
of your tale; but that can wait till after supper."
*CHAPTER XI.*
*THE LION'S DEN.*
"Welcome to the Lion's Den!" spoke the man Wylde, as he threw open the
door of a room which he had unlocked, and kicking a smouldering log upon
the hearth, evoked a cheery blaze, by the aid of which he lighted a lamp
that swung over a table littered with books, papers, and quills.
Grey stepped within the threshold, and looked about him with curious
eyes. The house they had entered a few minutes before was a tall and
narrow one in Harpe Alley, leading from Shoe Lane. It was not an old
house, for it came within the area of the great fire of fifty years
back, and had been rebuilt, like the whole of the surrounding buildings,
with greater speed than discretion. Grey had once come across Sir
Christopher Wren in his other life, and had talked with him of the
short-sighted policy observed in the rebuilding of the city. The great
architect declared that had his plans been carried out, London would
have been the finest city in the world: but the haste and false economy
of the citizens and city companies had thwarted his plans, and the old
lines of narrow and crooked streets were kept as before, to the cost of
succeeding generations.
This house had been hastily run up, like those surrounding it, and the
tempest from without rattled and shook the walls and windows as though
to drive them in. But the room itself, though no more than an attic,
bore an air of comfort very pleasant to the eyes of the homeless Grey,
whose own quarters only contained the barest necessities of life; for
there were some rough shelves full of books in one corner, and a rug
before the fire gave a look of comfort to the place. Two armchairs of
rude pattern, but furnished with down cushions, seemed to invite repose;
and everything was scrupulously clean, even to the boards of the floor.
"'A poor thing, but mine own,'" spoke the Old Lion, with his grim smile,
as he motioned to Grey to take one chair, and he himself pulled up the
other. "I have dwelt here two years and more now, and I have not been
unhappy; albeit I never thought to end my days in a garret, as belike I
shall do now."
"Fortune has been hard upon you," spoke Grey earnestly. "You have the
gifts and the powers; it is cruel that your limbs should have become
crippled."